


A Wolf in Tides

by FunkyClown



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Canon-Typical Behavior, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Sansa is pregnant, Season 8 Spoilers, Theon's alive, canon divergent after s8ep4, mutual understanding of pain and happiness, rape physical and mental assault mentioned but not shown nor described in detail, undying love and support for each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-10 19:30:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18666904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyClown/pseuds/FunkyClown
Summary: Sansa Stark and Theon Greyjoy have managed to survive the Great War, but battles never really end, only reform.Upon a dangerous revelation, Sansa once again needs Theon's help. It will be a risk, but if the pieces fall together this disaster could turn into a great fortune for them both. Getting the pieces to work together is the challenging part.This is mainly a hurt comfort with not very high stakes but there's a plot, I swear.(TW: Rape is mentioned in the story but will NOT be described)





	1. Skip this chapter -> chapter 2 is the real chapter

**Author's Note:**

> **Apologies to the messiness but this is a scraped chapter that I decided to leave up until further decision. You can skip this and move on to chapter 2 and miss nothing**
> 
>  
> 
> So writing fic for GoT is very intimidating b/c there's no way I can manage to handle fitting all the parts together like the very skilled writer(s) do on the show/books but this was an idea that really intrigued me. I love Sansa and Theon's relationship in every form so this is mainly a tribute to what might have been.

Before he opens his eyes Theon knows he hurts. Hot, throbbing pain spreads from the muscles binding his shoulder to his ribcage; trying to ignore it only makes his upper arm muscle twitch and he clenches up his gut in pain. He doesn’t want to confirm where he his, as he could be anywhere. But he couldn’t block out his other senses like he could his eyes. The tang of muck and blood hadn’t yet left his palette when he swallowed. Around him the smell of sweat, blood, mud, burning stones and flesh. This wasn’t safe, not yet. Danger. Danger pangs in his mind. Danger he was to weak to fight or flee from. He clenches his body ready to brace himself but through the pain of his skin he feels fabric over him, fabric lined with thick pelt that warms his cold sweat. 

“Theon… Theon!” 

He opens his eyes to Sansa’s voice. She looks down on him, her red hair the color of flame as the torch mounted to the wall behind her flickers, her brows wrinkle in an arc of concern. “Theon, are you awake?” 

“Where am I?” He pulls his body up quickly with a ripping pain through his left shoulder. Dark stone walls, sturdy and familiar. Familiar with safety and violence and fear. “This is Winterfell?” 

“Yes, we’re still at Winterfell.” Sansa puts her hand on his naked shoulder, keeping him from pushing up and flinging anymore forward. “Please Theon, you’re hurt. Don’t do anything to break your bandaging.” She looks at him with pleading eyes. Her eyes were red lined, harsh against her white face. He didn’t bid her hand’s request. Around him was Winterfell’s kitchen quarters with about a dozen other people, only half of whom he recognized, also boarded within. Each was on a makeshift bed of burlap sacks in various stages of condition, but all rested. Sansa kneels next to him.

“Is it safe? Is it all safe? The White Walkers, are they gone?” 

“Yes they are gone. We’re safe now; I don’t know for how long, maybe only hours or days but we’re safe and here and we’ve survived.” Her voice cracks with relief, finally allowed fragility. They exchange a watery eyed gaze before Sansa pulls him into her body, and neither could hold back tears.“Jon and Arya and Bran we've all survived!” She couldn’t hold back a laugh of disbelief as she kisses his curls, smelling the sweat on his scalp.

“Bran’s safe?” 

“Yes.” 

It wasn’t until then that he felt any permission to return her embrace. Theon felt his tears soak into Sansa’s fine fabric robe. Sansa could feel the pulse of his neck and throb of his heart on her chest, his iron-blood safely in his veins. 

“Lay down. You won’t be able to get fresh bandages soon if these soak through.” She whispers, cradling him back down to the burlap ground where she remains lying next to him. Nose to nose they lay, their breath on each other’s wet cheeks. Sansa’s stoic face breaks in a quiet bubbling giggle that crinkles her eyes. Theon caught her laugh as her breath tickles his scruffy beard. Neither wants to say anything. Nothing needs to be said that couldn’t be exchanged through their exhausted eyes. He reaches up a bruised hand to her neck, lightly running over her milk flesh with his calloused fingers. Goosebumps ripple over Sansa’s skin as she leans into his ghosting touch. Theon’s lips part with a desire he hadn’t felt in a long time but he moves no closer. 

"How…" he stutters with an unconfident voice, "I remember the blade going towards my belly...how did I survive?" 

"Because Arya is braver than all the kings put together." Sansa's skin vibrates with her low voice and once again is wobbly with emotion. "I don't know how she did it outside of the gods casting her favor. I've yet to ask her how everything happened."  
Theon tips his eyes downward. Once again saved by a Stark; it stung. He owed them everything and had barely stretched the surface of paying them back. He wasn't deserving of this many chances.

His silence was readable to Sansa, "Thank you for coming to Winterfell. For coming back home." 

“If Winterfell has a place for me.” Theon pulls his hand from her, as if shocked by the mention of their castle. 

“As long as a Stark is breathing, you will always have a place in Winterfell.” Sansa gently takes his hand as he moves away, resting hers on his. He answers by pressing his forehead to hers, letting the cold sweat from each of their bodies warm together. 

\-----

Sansa keeps herself busy the next dawn. She has no time to dwell in the physical and psychological haze left behind from the battle. Bodies needed to be buried. Walls rebuilt. People accounted for. Supplies taken stock of. She had talked to Jon, who stood in charge of collecting the dead. She admired his cool head, how easily he fell into his duties of collecting the dead and overseeing grave digging. Underneath it, however, she could read the stress behind his eyes. He was never was good at hiding how he felt; it’s lucky for him he was an honest man as he could never be a liar. She stands in the courtyard watching the bustling people. It wasn’t an ideal angle to count how many mouths they needed to feed but she didn’t trust the remaining bones of the castles structure. 

Behind her a nose sniffs and she twitches a harsh look back. Her defensiveness is only replaced by disgruntled concern as she sees Theon standing there. “What are you doing walking around?”

“The maesters say I’m fit enough to be walking.” A leather binding keeps his left arm plastered against his chest, leaving his sleeve empty. “I need to help with something.”

Only the smallest of smiles shows on her face.“Our grain storages are going to be enough for at least a year.” She turns her attention back to the crowd of busy humans. “Lucky whatever those corpses were had no sense to damage the food storage.” 

“That is good news then.” Theon inches next to her. “I hope there is more good news to come today.”

“I need to tell something to you,” Sansa turns to go back into the semi-collapsed food storage. She looks back at him, face stoney. “It’s not good news.” 

Theon swallows, following her. The temperature barely changes from the biting winter outside to the deep cold of the enclosing stones around them. “I can move grain to a more suitable location, one that hasn’t been half caved-” 

“I’m pregnant.” Sansa’s glittering eyes pierce back at him. She was only whispering but the words sound like a horn being blown right to his ear. He stands there, voice caught in his sore throat. 

“Are you for certain?” Was all he could croak out.

“Nearly.” Her voice was wavering between stoicism and nerves. “I haven’t sought the confirmation of the maesters but… I know.” She clasped her hands before her belly, biting her lip. 

“And you’re sure it’s-”

“Yes. It would have to be.” She wrings her hands tightly, turning numbingly white as her nose twitches and strings from wanting to cry. She would not cry, not if she kept her fingers digging into her palm. She speaks with bile on her tongue, hoping her words would poison his soul further. “And now I’m saddled with carrying a Bolton into this world.” Heavy silence permeates the stale air as the name sits in their minds. Theon’s fist clenches at his side as it shakes, his breathing wavers. “But that is why I wanted to ask you a favor, Theon.” 

“Any favor.” Theon replies immediately. 

“Theon,” Her composure gathers as she looks at him with desperate confidence. “We should tell them you're the father.”  
It felt as if his heart stops and for a moment he believes this would be his last breath. He tries to stay on his feet but seeks within her eyes for any help.

“You were with me during those times, so it is a possibility.” Her voice stings with smug bitterness. “And there won’t be any of those monsters alive to contest.” 

“My sister could contest.” Theon tries to keep up with Sansa’s thoughts but his own were hard enough. 

"Would she though? A baby would unite the Greyjoys to the North again. And the North back to the Greyjoys." Sansa tries to fix her posture, to carry herself with some dignity a proposal like this should earn. 

Theon contemplates, biting his lip. "My debt to the Starks is great. I owe you whatever you ask of -"

"Don't do it because you owe me anything." Sansa interrupts. "I'm sick of you owing me things. The past is done and paid for." She looks to his eyes, trying to pull him back. She knows a blush heats her cold face as she continues. "I ask because you're a good man Theon, and I think, if it must happen, better it serve both of our interests." She looks at him, begging him to answer more than the puffs of breath from his mouth. 

"I would be honored, Sansa." He feels a strength in his bones as he sees Sansa's worried face break with relief. If he could cause that every moment he would. Just as last night she wraps her arms around him. The Theon of the past would have been viled at being shorter than a woman but all he found was comfort in it now. Using his one good arm he softly rubs her back. 

Sansa let him sway her back and forth as he ran his hand down the pelts on her back. His hips to hers, she could nearly believe the child was actually his. She wants to believe it, more than she had realized before. She could settle into that lie and she would have been happy. His breath is on her neck, hot and dampening her skin. 

“I’ll send a raven to Yara. I haven’t heard a damned hint from her but it wouldn’t surprise me if she already sits on the salt throne.” Theon breaks the embrace that they had been holding for so long.

Sansa nods, “Keep vague in your writing.” 

“Should I say we are to marry?” Theon watches her move away towards the rubbled stairs of the grain storage. “The child would be a bastard without but that would hinder a more advantageous-” 

“We’re not in much of a state for marriages.” Sansa lightly chuckles, looking back with raised brows. “And I’m sick of damned wedding ceremonies anyhow. We’ll discuss it later when we aren’t clearing a gigantic rotting dragon corpse from the courtyard.”

“Very well My Lady.” Theon follows after her, parting ways as they reach the top of the stairs. He twitches a smile when leaving, which Sansa answers with a subtle smile on her own pale lips. Good news perhaps not, but not the worst news he had heard in his life.


	2. Formulation (the real ch 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon survives the Great War and Sansa has a decent proposal to benefit both of them.   
> (The real, actual ch 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the _real_ start to the fic, a refined and edited version of the first chapter. I'm still leaving the original (no longer relevant) first chapter up, but this is the actual one to start on it you're interested.   
> I should have been patient for the fourth episode so I would have a much more solid point to jump this fic off of, so sorry for the confusion/messiness :P I hope you still stick around
> 
> Trigger warning: physical and sexual abuse referenced but not describe or shown.

Before he opens his eyes Theon knows he hurts. Hot, throbbing pain spreads from the muscles binding his shoulder to his ribcage; trying to ignore it only makes his upper arm muscle twitch and he clenches up his gut in pain. He doesn’t want to confirm where he his, as he could be anywhere. But he couldn’t block out his other senses like he could his eyes. His throat is dry and still carries the tang of blood when he swallows. Around him the smell of muck and blood burns his nose. Those smells were not safe. Danger. Danger pangs in his mind. Danger he was too weak to fight or flee from. He clenches his body, ready to brace himself for whatever cruel touch was to follow but through the pain of his skin he feels a thick pelt over him that warms his cold sweat.

“Theon…Theon!” 

He opens his eyes to Sansa’s voice. She looks down on him, her red hair the color of flame as the torch mounted to the wall behind her flickers, her brows wrinkle in an arc of concern. “Thank all the gods you’re awake.”

“Where am I?” He tries to pull his body up but a ripping pain through his left shoulder prevents him from going further. Around him were dark walls, sturdy and familiar. Familiar with safety and violence and fear. “This is Winterfell?” 

“Yes, we’re still at Winterfell.” Sansa puts her hand on his naked shoulder, keeping him from pushing up and flinging anymore forward. “Please Theon, you’re hurt. Don’t do anything to break your bandaging.” She looks at him with pleading eyes, red lined and harsh against her white face. He didn’t bid her hand’s request. He is within an infirmary setup with about a dozen other men and women in makeshift beds of burlap sacks, each in various stages of condition, but all alive. Beside him Sansa is kneeling next to him. 

“Is it safe? Is it all safe? The White Walkers, are they gone?” 

“Yes they are gone. We’re safe now; I don’t know for how long, maybe only hours or days but we’re safe and here and we’ve survived.” Her voice cracks with relief, finally allowed fragility. They exchange a watery eyed gaze before Sansa pulls him into her body, and neither could hold back tears.“Jon and Arya and Bran we've all survived!” She couldn’t hold back a laugh of disbelief as she kisses his curls, smelling the sweat on his scalp.

“Bran’s safe?” 

“Yes.” 

It wasn’t until then that he felt any permission to return her embrace. Theon felt his tears soak into Sansa’s fine fabric robe. Sansa could feel the pulse of his neck and throb of his heart on her chest, his iron-blood safely in his veins. “You were unconscious for two days. I thought you wouldn’t wake up.” She whispers into his skin. 

“I’m sorry I worried you.” Theon grasps on to her. 

“You should be. The maesters have gotten sick of me bothering them about you.” Sansa dares to let a smile show. “All you’re missing is a nonsense party full of drunkards.” Between the soft crackles of torches and the beating of Sansa’s pulse, Theon could hear the dull roar of celebration from beyond the walls. All it would take to be normal again would be to walk through those doors to the common room: grab an ale, a woman, sit down amongst the men who fought with you and compare how many walking corpses you sliced down. But nothing in him wants that. Nothing in him wants more than being held.

“You should go, then. Be with your people.” 

“My people have seen me, now I want to be here. Lay down. You won’t be able to get fresh bandages if you soak these through.” She cradles him back down onto the burlap ground, holding herself low above his body. Nose to nose they remained, breath on each other’s wet cheeks. Sansa’s stoic face breaks in a quiet bubbling giggle that crinkles her eyes. Theon caught her laugh as her breath tickles his scruffy beard. Neither wants to say anything. Nothing needs to be said that couldn’t be exchanged through their exhausted eyes. He reaches up a bruised hand to her neck, lightly running over her milk flesh with his calloused fingers. Goosebumps ripple over Sansa’s skin as she leans into his ghosting touch.

"How…" he stutters with an unconfident voice, "I remember the blade going towards my belly...how did I survive?" 

"Because Arya is braver than all the kings put together." Sansa's skin vibrates with her low voice and once again is wobbly with emotion. "I don't know how she did it outside of the gods casting her favor. I've yet to hear from her how everything happened."

Theon tips his eyes downward. Once again saved by a Stark; it stung. He owed them everything and had barely scratched the surface of paying them back. He wasn't deserving of this many chances.

His silence was readable to Sansa, "Thank you for coming to Winterfell. For coming back home." 

“If Winterfell has a place for me.” Theon pulls his hand from her, as if shocked by the mention of the castle. 

“As long as a Stark is breathing, you will always have a place in Winterfell.” Sansa rests her forehead upon his, letting the heat from her skin warm his. He could feel his cheeks flush as her red hair tickles his neck. Sansa pulls away then, conflicting emotions rendering her unable to act beyond escape. As an instinct she obeyed guardedness; it often told more truth than any sort of longing. “I shouldn’t keep you up if you need rest.” 

“You need rest more than I do.” Theon readily accepted her request for distance, releasing a breath of relief. He averts his eyes from her as the pain from his wound he could ignore before returns with force. 

“I will see you in the morning,” 

\----------

Even by the next morning last night’s festivities were barely dampened. Folks were giddy with victory, having renewed passion. What could the damned lion queen possibly have that was worse than the army of death itself? Sansa couldn’t help the jovialness from penetrating some of her mood. Daenerys’ dragons had proved more than just helpful in destroying the animated dead; although they ate meat ravenously, so much so the people barely got any, the warmth of their bodies and breath had proved useful in aiding crops to grow in the normally brittle and frozen soil of the winter. However her conversation with Jon had restored her anxious mind; he assured her his worry was from one of the dragons being severely injured in the battle, so much so that the creature couldn’t fly. Jon was lucky he was normally an honest man as he could never be a good liar. 

As she surveys the bustling crowd of people atop the walls surrounding the courtyard, behind her a nose sniffs. Twitching around with a stern look, her defensiveness is replaced by disgruntled concern as she sees Theon standing there. “What are you doing walking around?” 

“The maesters say I’m fit enough to be walking.” A leather binding keeps his left arm plastered against his chest, leaving his sleeve empty. “I need to help with something.”

Only the smallest of smiles shows on her face.“Our grain storages will be more than enough to wait out until it is advantageous to attack. The dragons may take all our meat but they do warm the ground enough for crops to continue growing.” 

“That is good news then.” Theon inches next to her. “I hope there is more good news to come today.”

“I need to tell you something.” Sansa walks towards one of the wooden doors of the towers. She looks back to him, face stoney. 

Theon swallows, following her. The temperature barely changes from the biting winter outside to the deep cold of the enclosing stones around them. He didn’t need to wait long for her to speak.

“I’m pregnant.” Sansa’s glittering eyes pierce back at him. She was only whispering but the words sound like a horn being blown right to his ear. He stands there, voice caught in his sore throat. 

“Are you for certain?” Was all he could croak out.

“Nearly.” Her voice was wavering between stoicism and nerves. “I haven’t sought the confirmation of the maesters but… I know.” She clasped her hands before her belly, biting her lip. 

“And you’re sure it’s-”

“Yes. It would have to be.” She wrings her hands tightly, turning numbingly white as her nose twitches and strings from wanting to cry. She would not cry, not if she kept her fingers digging into her palm. She speaks with spite on her tongue, hoping her words would poison the bastard’s soul further. “And now I’m saddled with carrying a Bolton into this world.” Heavy silence permeates the stale air as the name sits in their minds. Theon’s fist clenches at his side as it shakes, his breathing wavers. “But that is why I wanted to ask you a favor, Theon.” 

“Any favor.” Theon replies immediately. 

“Theon,” Her composure gathers as she looks at him with desperate confidence. “We should tell them you're the father.” 

It felt as if his heart stops and for a moment he believes this would be his last breath. He tries to stay on his feet and seeks within her eyes for any help.  
“You were with me during those times, so it is a possibility.” Her voice stings with smug bitterness. “And there won’t be any of those monsters alive to contest.” 

“My sister could contest,” Theon’s eyes flinch downward. “I’m sorry, Sansa…” The words seem caught in the lump in his throat. “She will know it isn’t true, isn’t possible. Of the things done to me… I am not a man anymore.” Memories invade his mind and his body trembles, the pain of his arm nearly unnoticeable as his senses went numb. He needs to shrivel, to be small and away from sight and attention. That was safety. Away and small and shriveled.

“Theon,” Sansa’s tries to hold a level of stability in her tone, but couldn’t control the waver as she saw his resolve breaking in front of her. She reaches out and lightly touches his shaking hand that was pulling and clutching at his clothing. “The past is done, Theon. I am Lady of Winterfell and we are alive together. We have taken our home again.” Theon listens to her breath; it was not the breath of a hunter coming to rasp at this throat. Moments pass of her pale hand holding on to his before he answered back with a light squeeze. He looks at her blue eyes; he saw his fear mirrored in ice. It was Sansa, and Sansa he could trust to understand. 

“It’s only Yara who knows. She could contest.” Theon speaks. 

“Would she though? A baby would unite the Greyjoys to the North. And the North back to the Greyjoys.” Sansa tries to fix her posture to carry herself with some dignity a proposal like this should earn. 

Theon contemplates, biting his lip. "My debt to the Starks is great. I owe you whatever you ask of -"

"Don't do it because you owe me anything." Sansa interrupts. "I'm sick of you owing me things. You were stupid in the past and so was I. You have paid that back to me already." She looks to his eyes, trying to pull him back. She knows a blush heats her cold face as she continues. "I ask because you're a good man Theon, that was not taken from you. And if it must happen, better it serve both of our interests." She looks at him, begging him to answer more than the puffs of breath from his mouth. 

"I would be honored, Sansa." He feels a strength in his bones as he sees Sansa's worried face break with relief. If he could cause that every moment he would. Just as last night she wraps her arms around him. The Theon of the past would have been viled at being shorter than a woman but all he found was comfort in it now. Using his one good arm he softly rubs her back. 

Sansa lets him sway her back and forth as he ran his hand down the pelts on her back. His hips to hers, she could nearly believe the child was actually his. She wants to believe it, more than she had realised before. She could settle into that lie and she would have been happy. His breath is on her neck, hot and dampening her skin. 

“Daenerys will be sending word to your sister and prince of Dorne to join us in Winterfell to better strategize taking King’s Landing. Her arrival is expected in the next few fortnights. We should tell her with my family then, rather than risk sending a raven.” Sansa breaks the embrace, a tad embarrassed by the immaturity of negotiating a marriage while burying her face in the prospective husband’s hair. 

Theon’s forehead furrows. “I wonder if I’d rather send a raven.” 

Sansa smirks subtly, pleased to see him in at least some humor again. “If you’d like to slip her a note like a boy you may.” 

“So we are to marry?” Theon questions. ““The child would be a bastard without but that would hinder a more advantageous marria-”

“We’re not in much of a state for marriages.” Sansa lightly chuckles, looking back with raised brows as she opens the heavy wooden door to the courtyard’s lookout. “And I’m sick of damned wedding ceremonies anyhow. We’ll discuss it later when we aren’t clearing a gigantic rotting dragon corpse from Winterfell.”

“Very well My Lady.” He parts ways with Sansa, twitching a smile on his bruised lips, which Sansa answers with a slight smile and nod. Theon carries his way down the stairwell; the best news perhaps not, but not the worst news he had heard in his life.


End file.
